


Out Of The Dark (The Barbara Rose Remix)

by tifaching



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Coma, Concussions, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Remix, Stanford Era, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-30
Updated: 2011-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tifaching/pseuds/tifaching
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can't remember much, but he <i>knows</i> he's not drunk.  Unfortunately the E.R. staff's not going to listen to a messed up street kid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Barba Rossa](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/3436) by adrenalineshots. 



> The orginal fic was an outsider pov look at a concussed Dean being brought into an E.R., reeking of alcohol and it being assumed that he's just an alcoholic street kid. When adrenalineshots offered it up to be remixed I jumped at the chance to see things from Dean's POV and get some insight into how he got into the state he was in.

“Hey Jake, check this out.” The voice is loud, slurring and it echoes through Dean’s head: _check this out…out…out …out…_.There are hands on him, rolling him over, pushing into his pockets and rummaging around, but they’re not going to find anything, Dean knows. His cheek’s pressed against frozen pavement, there’s a puke-inducing smell clogging his nostrils and his head hurts like fuck. But the hands…the _hands_ are what are important here because they’re _touching_ him and any minute they might start…start… he can’t remember, but whatever it was he doesn’t want it to happen anymore. He can sort of see the guy who’s robbing him in the dimly lit alley, but the man’s eyes are hidden in the gloom and the eyes… he needs to see them because….he doesn’t know, but he needs to see them.

“Ge’ the fu’ off me,” he growls at the man pawing at him, but it comes out so garbled that the man just laughs and tries to knock Dean’s teeth down his throat.

“Hear that Jake? Think he’s tryin’ to tell me somethin’?”

“Think he’s trying to tell you that his stinkin’ ass don’t have nothin’ for you. Come on, Stevie. Let’s head to Washington Ave. and see if we can’t score over there.”

“Nah,” Stevie answers. “Gonna have a little more fun here, first.” He upends the bottle he’s holding, sloshing its contents over Dean until the reek of cheap bourbon mixes with the sewer smell already overpowering the rancid odors of the alley. There’s a clicking noise and Stevie stands back, lighter flickering in his hand.

Dean can’t look at the light; it’s burning through his brain like a laser. He closes his eyes and sees his father, a lighter a lot like Stevie’s falling from his hand, setting the body beneath him ablaze.

“Just like that,” he hears his dad’s voice in his head. “You burn ‘em and they never come back.”

“Nuh,” he mutters, holding his hands up like that’s going to stop the lighter from dropping. “Nah dead. Don’ hafta. Gotta…Sammy.”

“ _ **We’re taking care of Sammy now, Dean.** ” There’s a girl in a bar and he’s telling her that he’s maybe going to head to Palo Alto to make sure his brother’s not alone on Thanksgiving. One thing leads to another and they head back to her place because it’s not like he’s gotta leave right this second, and he’s got his jacket off and they’re kissing and then there’s three fucking guys in the bedroom and “sweetheart, I ain’t into dudes” and he can’t move and they all have these pitch black eyes and…._

“No, you fucking drunk, you’re not dead. You’re gonna freeze, you keep laying there, so we’re gonna help you out and warm you up a little.”

“C’mon, man.” Jake’s pulling at Stevie’s arm, but his friend isn’t budging. “It’s almost Christmas, don’t be doin’ this.”

“Nah Chr’sm’s,” Dean slurs. “ ‘s Th’nksgivn’. G’nna see Sammy.” He tries to get up, but Stevie’s boot slamming into his chest keeps him in place. His hands try to grip Stevie’s ankle but there’s no strength left in them and they just slither back down to his sides. “Ge’ off me f’ckr. C’n’t br’the.”

“ _ **Come on, you said we could play now. He’s been down here for weeks and you ain’t let us have any fun**.” He feels like he’s been in the sewer tunnels forever, with only a few scraps of food every eternity or so, and he can feel his body starting to eat itself. He’s only had enough water to keep him alive and if they untied him he could maybe take one of them down before he passed out from the exertion and the big guy with the heavy boots takes a step forward and slams his foot into Dean’s chest until it feels like his heart is gonna stop and…_

“Thanksgiving? That must have been one hell of a bender, pal. Thanksgiving was almost a month ago. And leave me the fuck alone, Jake. Never let me have any God-damned fun.” Stevie steps back and is swinging his hand in an arc that will land the lighter right in the middle of Dean’s chest when a door opens into the alleyway and a burly man steps through, holding a couple of bags of garbage.

“Hey! What have I told you fuckin’ bums about hangin’ out back here?” The man drops the bags and storms toward the men in the alley.

“Shit!” Stevie’s hand opens, but it’s the empty bottle that drops and Dean watches it fall in slow motion, down…down…down… until it’s in pieces and shards of broken glass slice into his arm. Stevie’s pocketing the lighter as he and Jake sprint out of the alley, the garbage man’s curses echoing behind them.

“You too, pal,” he rumbles, moving to prod Dean with his foot. “Can’t sleep it off here. Why can’t you God-damned drunks pass out indoors where you’re somebody else’s problem?”

“Nah dr’nk,” Dean mumbles. “Nah dead either. Don’ hav’ta burn me. Don’ burn.”

“I’m not gonna burn you, Jesus Christ. Come on, get up.” The man leans down to grab Dean’s arm, but as soon as he gets within smelling distance, he backs up quickly, gagging. After a few moments spent bent over, hands braced on his knees, he manages to keep his dinner where it belongs and heads back through the open door. When he returns a few minutes later, he’s got a cloth knotted across his nose and mouth and garbage bags tied over his arms.

“Okay, let’s try this again.” He takes a deep breath and bends over, grabbing Dean’s wrists and jerking him to his feet. He keeps his plastic covered hands on Dean’s biceps as Dean sways and almost pitches over again. “Come on man, cut that shit out. You fall on your face again and I’m callin’ the cops to come haul your ass away.”

Dean’s staring at the guy’s face, trying to focus as it bobs and weaves in his blurry vision. The man sighs and pushes Dean into baby steps down the alley. Dean steadies himself on the hands gripping him and by the time they reach the street he’s moving on his own.

“Look,” the man says, turning him to the right. “You’re gonna freeze to death if you stay out here. There’s a shelter about three blocks that way, so why don’t you go be their headache for the night.”

Dean braces one hand against the wall and tries to focus on what’s in front of him. If he turns his head, he’s going down again, and now that he’s off the ice-cold ground he damned well wants to stay there. He’s not going to get to Thanksgiving with Sammy if he’s face-planted in an alley.

“Gotta fin’ Sammy, he’s prob’ly waitin’,” and then he’s staggering in a zigzag pattern down the sidewalk because Sam’s not going to wait long. _Shelter_ , keeps running through his mind, but not _a_ shelter, and he doesn’t know what he’s looking for but he’d better find it soon. Now that he’s out in the open, the bitter wind is cutting through his soaked clothing and burning his exposed skin.

There are Christmas lights everywhere on the street, multi-colored or white, blinking or solid, all are haloed and swirling in full 3-D concussion vision. Brightly glowing sparks dart around Dean’s face like incandescent gnats. He closes his eyes before the sparks can fly straight through them and loses his balance so fast that only a lurching spin into the nearest wall keeps him vertical.

His brain feels like it’s being tumble-dried and he presses into the wall so hard that he’s afraid it’s going to open up and swallow him back into the dark. By the time he’s steady enough to open his eyes again, he’s got indentations in his cheek from its impact against the rough bricks. Dean’s hands are flat against the wall, bracketing his head and he stares steadily at his left thumb as he gulps in the short, shallow breaths that are all his ribs can handle. There’s light shining from above and he wonders how he can be so cold when the sun is _right_ there.

The light’s bright and his hand is dark with grime and he scrapes it against the wall like that’s going to make him clean. The palm of his hand runs down the bricks and he turns it over to get the back and lets out a choked cry. Outside of the sledgehammer beating on his skull and the vise strangling his lungs, he isn’t in much pain. The bitter cold has been good for that much, at least. Now though, his hand is throbbing and he stares at his fingers as they get bigger and smaller, bigger and smaller, like Wile E. Coyote’s hand when he smacks it with a hammer.

“ _ **Where’s your daddy, Dean?** ” He’s underground, squinting his dark-adjusted eyes into the light of the torches his captors always bring and he’s already inhaled the food they threw him and this is new because usually the soundtrack to his torture is bullshit about what they’ve got going on with Sam and he tries to twist away when one reaches for his bound wrists but they grab him and pull his hands to them. One has a pair of pliers and they start pulling his fucking fingernails out and asking their stupid questions that he’s never going to answer and they tell him they’ve got to go now, but to think on where his daddy is and they’ll see if they can’t manage to actually make him scream when they come back and…_.

Dean pushes himself off the wall, because this standing around crap isn’t going to get him to his brother. The lights are still flying into his eyes, but he forces himself to not react. If they want to zip right through his head, he’s gonna give them the fucking green light. Every time one buzzes him it sets off a tiny explosion behind his eyeballs, but he just stirs it into the crushing agony that’s already there. There’s a pulsing beat to the pain and his feet follow its rhythm as he shuffles into the night.

The sun comes and goes as he wanders down the sidewalk, shooting stars flying by him in the dark. More people appear as he gets closer to the shelter, just shadows, blurry in his fading vision; any of them could be Sam. Any of them could be Sam and Dean could just be walking right by without knowing so he begins to grab for anyone within reach.

“Sammy? ‘s ‘at you?” Dean’s got a fistful of jacket and is pulling its occupant closer to peer into a face that really doesn’t want to be peered at.

“Get the fuck off me or I’m calling the cops,” rings in Dean’s ears and _that’s_ not Sam. His family doesn’t do police. Ever.

“Sorry. My m’stake.” Dean’s already moving on, there are more people down the block and maybe Sammy’s there. He begins to call his brother’s name and he can’t tell, but he thinks some of them are looking back at him. If Sam hears Dean calling, he’ll be sure to come. Then they can have their Thanksgiving dinner because Dean’s gonna die of starvation if he doesn’t find his brother soon.

The shadows Dean’s chasing move further and further away as he approaches. They’re fast, darting like quicksilver across his vision, and they must be something unnatural, because people can’t get away from Dean like that. There’s no one he can’t chase down and these things are evading him like he’s standing still.

There’s sunlight ahead and the shadows aren’t as dark, though they still swirl around him like schools of fish. He reaches for them as they flit by, but he’s always a step behind. Their voices are loud, strident, there and gone like the shadows. There’s movement beside him, quick and sure and he tries to turn because maybe he’s finally found Sam, but the sudden motion is too much and he starts to pitch forward. A strong hand grips his arm and pulls him upright, steering him toward an open doorway.

“Hey. Hey, buddy.” It’s not Sam. He’s got the same blurry look that everyone has, but it’s sure as hell not Sam. “Why don’t you come on in here, get a cup of coffee and some food. You sure look like you could use it.”

“Nuh.” Dean shakes his head, tries to pull away. “Gonna have dinner wi’ Sammy. He’s waitin’ for me.”

“Yeah? Maybe he’s already inside, and he’s got a plate all set for you. Come on, man. You look like haven’t had a meal in a good, long time. Aren’t you hungry?”

“ _ **Brought you some breakfast, Dean**.” They upend the bucket on the ground in front of him like they always do, and it’s scraps of rotten meat and moldy vegetables and he scrambles to his knees and bends low to eat every last bite. It’s disgusting, but it’s keeping him alive and if this bunch of assholes wants him dead he’s not going to help them one damned bit and as long as they keep feeding him, he’s gonna keep eating no matter how humiliating it is because he’s not fucking dying down here and.._

Dean is, but he’s having Thanksgiving dinner with Sam and he’ll eat when he finds his brother. He doesn’t have time for this now.

“ ‘s okay.” Dean pulls out of the man’s grasp. “Gotta find Sammy.”

“Your choice, buddy. Hang on just a sec , would you?” The man takes a step to the door and calls out to someone inside. A minute later he’s coming back to Dean, a steaming paper cup and a sandwich in his hands. “Take these with you so you’ve got something to tide you over until your dinner with Sammy, okay?”

Dean wraps a shaking hand around the cup, and hisses. “ ‘s too hot. What’r you doin’?”

“No, man. You’re too cold. Just take a few sips, get something warm in you. And eat the sandwich too.”

Dean lifts the cup to his mouth and takes a sip, wincing as the hot liquid slides over his cracked lips. He takes a bite of the sandwich and God, it’s real food and he stuffs it into his mouth, swallows and it’s gone in seconds. He clenches his jaw because his head doesn’t seem to want to let his stomach go about its business and after a minute or two the food decides to stay where it is.

“Thanks,” he mutters to the stranger, and takes another drink, some coffee making it into his mouth, some sloshing down his chin. He raises his hand weakly to rub the liquid away and his fingers tangle in the tufts of beard matting his face. “Wha’ th’ fu’?”

“ _ **Looking a little worse for wear these days, Dean. Couldn’t get a hot chick like me to take you home now**.” Fingers tighten in the tangled mess that is his hair, rip at the sparse beard dotting his face. He’s been wearing the same clothes for weeks and it’s not like there’s a bathroom in his tunnel; the stink of himself and his surroundings has long since lost its effect on him and he’ll worry about getting his hair right again when he’s out of here and…_.

His eyes meet those of the man in front of him in confusion and he’s suddenly not sure why he’s here or where he’s going . His head is pounding and he can’t breathe and he just wants to take the man up on his offer and head inside for a month or two. He takes a step forward and the man smiles and holds out a hand and then there’s a backbeat to the throbbing in Dean’s skull and _no_. He’s supposed to be finding Sam.

The new noise cutting through the clutter in Dean’s brain is what he’s been looking for all night. It’s not coming from here, but it’s not too far away and when he gets to where it’s coming from he’ll be safe, he’ll be home. And home is where Sam is.

“You hear that?” He looks at the man and gestures vaguely to his ears. “Sammy’s there. Gotta…”

“No, man. That’s just our resident Grinch, Mr. Morris. He don’t like Christmas music much, so he blasts his damned heavy metal over it. Store’s not even open now, nobody’s there.”

Dean’s not listening. Not to him anyway. He knows that sound, knows what it means. It’s the sound of his life, and he’s going home. He stumbles down the sidewalk, the full cup of coffee falling from his hand. The shelter worker watches him go and shakes his head.

Dean’s got a destination now, and he’s reeling down the sidewalk , following the sound of Blitzkrieg to warmth and safety. His vision’s getting worse, but the music pounds into his brain and he follows its ever increasing volume. The next intersection is a busy one, but he just stumbles off the curb, weaving his way blindly through the traffic. The cars screech by, horns blaring, brakes squealing and the headlights stream into his brain like spaceships at warp speed. It’s a miracle that he makes it across without being hit by one of the speeding cars, but he reaches the other side in no worse condition than when he started across.

The curb is trickier going up than down, and Dean sprawls on his hands and knees after his foot catches the lip of the concrete. It’s a tough call in his fuzzed brain whether he’s going up or down from here, but the music’s calling him home and he’s so, so close. He manages to get his feet under him and slowly, cautiously, forces himself upright. He’s in the cold sunlight again, and the music’s beating a molten drum cadence behind his eyes.

Loudspeakers blare over Dean’s head, but he doesn’t see them. His eyes scan the sidewalk, the curb, the street. His vision has grown so dark that even if something was there he wouldn’t see it, but he keeps looking because if the music’s here, home has to be here too.

“Sammy! Hey, bitch! I’m waiting, where are you?” His voice is harsh, gravelly, and his already overworked lungs strain to scream the words out over the music. Dean staggers up and down the sidewalk, calling for his brother, but no one’s coming. His eyes dart to the street, but there’s no familiar growl of an engine, no warmth and shelter waiting at the curb. They’re not here. He’s come so far and he’s going to have to go further because it’s not enough. It’s never enough, and he turns back into the wind, ready to soldier on because he has to get to Sammy. There’s a wailing noise assaulting his ears and it’s trying to drown out the music, but that’s okay this isn’t really home anyway. Dean takes a few halting steps down the sidewalk before his eyes are caught by the police car that’s speeding his way. The flashing, spinning lights are the last straw for his pounding skull and he’s falling, head bouncing off the pavement, consciousness finally deserting him as the cops pull up beside his sprawled body.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Dean’s aware of is sound; wheels squeaking, the murmur of voices, footsteps hurrying past. Wherever he is, he’s out of the wind and whatever he’s lying on, it’s not pavement. Beyond that, nothing much matters and he fades back into the dark.

When he comes around again, the room is circling slowly around him. Or he’s spinning and it’s holding still, he can’t really tell. It doesn’t help that he’s in motion, light fixtures and ceiling tiles rotating fuzzily overhead as he’s wheeled into an exam room. Two people hover around his gurney as it lurches to a stop and Dean tears his eyes away from the ceiling and tries, unsuccessfully, to focus on them instead.

They’re talking to him, voices rumbling, though the words aren’t clear. Dean can feel them squirming through his ear canals, but once they reach his brain they scatter like kids on a playground. He gives chase, trying to catch the words as they run and jump through his mind. It’s a lot of effort, almost more than he wants to put into anything right now, but words are important. You have to hear and remember and he still hasn’t found Sammy. Maybe these guys know where he is.

He’s slow. The words rocket past and zip around for another run and finally, he manages to tackle one. He hangs on to it tightly until he can decipher what it says, and he’s glad he managed to run down _this_ word, because obviously there’s something that needs to be set straight here.

“ ‘m not…’m not drunk!” Dean tries to sit up to give his words more weight, because, really, who’s going to take you seriously when you’re flat on your back, but a hand pushes him down like he’s a child. More words follow and Dean manages to grab onto _cold, streets_ and _condition_. “Not…not dr’nk.”

The sitting up was a bad move, Dean barely has time to realize, before his stomach contracts and his sandwich and coffee are projectile vomited across the room. There are hands on him again and he tries to knock them away but they’re too fast, he can never quite connect. There’s something shiny moving up his chest and it’s cutting his shirt away and it’s too bright, he’s not back in the dark, he’s not, he’s _no_ t. Dean flails at the scissors helplessly. “G’t… get ya f… ffrri’ing hands ‘ff me!”

Dean’s wrist is encircled in a firm grip and held down on the gurney. The voice is rumbling again; _restraints, afraid_.

“ _ **Hold the fuck still, Dean**.” He’d fought, he’d fought as hard as he could, but four against one and with the four having mind mojo that keep him pinned like a bug are odds he couldn’t beat. They’d dragged him from the apartment and into the back of a waiting van, and at least they’d left his baby untouched, they’d better have fucking left her untouched and there’s the clank of metal behind him, then they’re snapping thick cuffs onto his wrists and attaching them to a heavy iron chain and they know almost every hiding place; they take the paper clips and the pens and every little thing he could use to get himself free, but they don’t find the paper, fuckers don’t find that, and then they pull him down underground, into the dark and…_

He can’t be tied up, can’t risk not being able to get out of here when he gets his chance. Sammy can’t be alone. So he lies still and lets the hands cut and rip the filthy clothes from his body. The soaked fabric pulls as they try to remove it, sticking to sores and peeling off scabs. It’s warm where he is now, his body’s not freezing any more, not protected from pain by the cold and he grits his teeth against the moan that wants to slip free.

They don’t tie him down, and they’re not really hurting him. His clothes are disappearing into a plastic bag, but they were wet and smelled bad and he’s not sorry to see them go. The men are still talking, but he doesn’t think they’re talking to him, so he lets his mind drift for a moment and mutters words to himself, trying to find some that make sense.

Water sloshes nearby and Dean’s not thirsty. He wants to tell them that, but a hand holding a warm cloth begins to gently wash his face and he relaxes with a sigh. Not in the dark, not back in the dark. The hand moves to his chest, easy over the bruised flesh and then to his arm, reopening the cut from Stevie’s broken bottle and that gets Dean’s attention.

“I’m not… ge’ off me.” There’s someone here and he’s not sure where here is and, “Don'-- Sammy?”

More words slither his way, and he hears _Eddy_ , so okay, not Sammy then. But then it’s _Sammy_ and he doesn’t know what the hell to think until _your name_? and then he knows because Sammy would already know who he was. Is. Something. Dean wants to tell the man his name, but it’s not right there where the words are and he’s going to have to go find it.

 _Name_ , Dean thinks, and tries to follow the word as it leaves the nothingness of the space he’s been camping out in. His mind’s swirling and he thinks maybe he should swim to wherever his name is, but just as he reaches the edge of where he’s been and starts to dive off, the bees come. They’re loud enough that the buzzing actually hurts and they force him back into the empty spaces. The name’s not coming, and he can’t go to it, not with the bees there, so he goes back to what he does know.

“-’m not—‘runk.” Dean knows what being drunk feels like and it’s not like this. Except it sort of is, but this is something else, he’s sure of it. “Do… y— I can’t… can’t ‘member a thing.”

Talking’s not getting him anywhere, so he floats in his mind and listens, because listening is what you do when you want to find things out. Everything’s slowing down and as the words drift by, it’s easier to catch some of them. _Pretty eyes_. He’s fairly sure he’s heard that before. _Head trauma_. Yahtzee. _Yahtzee_? His head feels like it was traumatized by an eighteen wheeler running over it and he fucking _told_ them he wasn’t drunk. There are hands on him again, gently turning his head and running fingers through the matted tangle of his hair. The fingers find the lump on the back of his skull and a bolt of lightning strikes his brain.

“ _ **We’re going to let you go, Dean**.” He doesn’t believe them, of course he doesn’t believe them, they’re not going to do all this, tell him all this, and then just let him go. He’s at the end of his strength, and they know it as well as he does and maybe they think he’ll die up there, but he’s not going to give them the fucking satisfaction and then they’re dragging him to his feet. One’s got an iron bar in his hand and he swings it like a baseball bat at the back of Dean’s head and as Dean’s falling they’re telling him they’ll be back in a few days and if he hasn’t died from his brain being slammed into his skull like a fastball, they’ll take him up above and let him to freeze to death in some back alley. They leave arguing about whether it would be more fun if John never found out what happened to him, or if he knew his son had died like a drunken bum, alone in the cold. When they come back Dean’s alive but fading fast, he can’t see straight, he can’t talk straight, he definitely can’t think straight and they laugh as they drag him up out of the dark and…_

The bees. The bees are coming, Dean can hear the buzz, feel the vibrations of millions of wings. He knows there’s nowhere for him to hide, so he flails blindly for whatever’s within reach and there’s someone there. Someone’s there and he grabs on tight, hoping they’ll pull him to safety. He’s hurting so it’s got to be Sammy, who else would it be? Who else does he know?

“Sammy, … you’r here. Sammy… I wanna… I wanna go homm- please… I just… wanna go homm.“ The bees overrun him and there’s no escape; the furious buzzing drowns out everything as the swarm begins to stab red-hot pokers into his brain. Then he’s convulsing, slamming into the gurney and there’s time for a moment of heart-stopping terror before a stinger plunges into his arm and he’s catapulted back down into the dark.


	3. Chapter 3

The unrelenting blackness is quiet, at least at first. Maybe it’s what death is like, Dean thinks. Maybe it _is_ death. There’s a distant flare of panic at the thought, but it’s far away, drifting at the edges of the universe and getting worked up over it is too much effort. He’s not dead, he decides. He’s just dormant; waiting for the right conditions to come to life again.

No light can penetrate the void he’s floating in, but eventually sounds begin to worm their way in. Irritating sounds. Pings and beeps and fragments of music that sometimes sound familiar. Dean lets the noise flow through the dark and off into space, and _the Grinch hates Christmas music_ , and where the fuck did that come from? The Grinch hates the Whos down in Whoville and all their noise, noise, noise, noise and right now Dean’s in total agreement with him. His brain would probably shatter into a million pieces if any of his music started playing, but he’s willing to take the chance if it means he never has to hear “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” ever again.

People talk to him, but their words are vague and hard to follow and he mostly doesn’t bother. One voice in particular becomes familiar. _Eddy_ , is there and gone in a flash, and Dean thinks he should know this guy from somewhere, but he’ll be damned if he can place him.

 _Home_ and _Christmas_ meander past in Eddy’s voice and Dean just lets them go. Home is nowhere in particular and only one Christmas that he can remember has ever meant anything to him. And why the fuck is the guy calling him _Barbara Rose_? Maybe he _is_ dead. Maybe he’s been dead for a long time and he was reincarnated into some chick’s body. Maybe… _Princess_ and _Sammy_ and _Stanford_ are drifting past, and Dean stops them dead, but the words that went with them are long gone. He anchors himself on those three words and waits for more, but Eddy’s disappeared and maybe he was never there at all.

Other voices send words Dean’s way, but most are meaningless or confusing. He can’t figure out how some of them think they’re going to give a disembodied consciousness a bath and it’s starting to freak him out how often the words _Barbara Rose_ stream past.

If Eddy’s a figment of his imagination he’s a pretty consistent one. Dean tries to fling a net over Eddy’s words, but most evade his trap. _Hope_ and _try_ and _maybe_ struggle to escape, and Dean lets them go because he’s known for a long time that those words only lead to disappointment. _Sammy_ he latches onto with an iron grip and it’s the one word he’s going to hold forever.

Forever’s a long time though, and Dean thinks that if he let go of the _Sammy_ that he’s holding onto for dear life he’d float off into the void and never find his way back. Sometimes he’s ready to do that- ready to let go and see if there’s anything out there beyond the dark. But mostly he just waits because anything else is giving up and that’s not something he’s ever been good at.

Time passes, or Dean thinks it does. Keeping track of how long he’s been floating is impossible when there’s no frame of reference for anything. Conversations ebb and flow around him, sometimes he catches the words and sometimes he doesn’t but no matter what he does, nothing ever becomes easier to understand.

One night, or day there’s no way for him to tell, the feeling around him changes. There’s a buzz in the air, fragments of excited conversations whiz by…. _here, downstairs, Sammy_ …and the blackness whirls around him as he tries to gather them in. _His_ Sammy? Here? Where ever here was?

Dean strains to catch every word, every syllable that will tell him whether or not this is his brother. No one, however, seems to know anything but the man’s name and that he had arrived, in the nick of time on Christmas Eve. He waits, what else can he do really, and it’s like the entire void whooshes out a breath of relief when he catches a word, finally, that makes sense.

 _Dean_.

It’s Sam, _his_ Sam and it’s important that he doesn’t miss any words now, so he gets ready to leap on whatever his brother sends his way. More words are flowing through the air, because Sam and words are like Dean and cheeseburgers, but Dean doesn’t think any of them are for him.

Sam throws out _condition_ and _prognosis_ and _duration_ and a new voice lobs back _coma_ and _complications_ and _no way to know_. Dean feels like he’s rolled five sixes because he’s not dead and in the body of a chick, he’s in a fucking _coma_. Okay, well maybe it’s five ones he’s rolled, but not being dead definitely qualifies as a yahtzee.

Sam and the other guy… _doctor?.....yeah, probably_ ….go on for a while, then Sammy’s are the only words left in the room and they are fucking pissed.

 _You dumb fuck….’unting alone, weren’t you…Dad should’ve…with you….what the hell, Dean…by yourself… tramping in the sewers…no backup…goddam hero every fucking ti-_ …and Dean wants to defend himself, but he really can’t. He’s got no idea what he was doing before he ended up here, and even if he did, the words are strictly a one way proposition. That shit’s gotta stop now though. Who knows how long Sam will stick around if all Dean’s going to do is lie here and listen. He’s a captive audience, though. Sammy can talk at him all he wants and Dean can’t snark back at him or walk away. Should be win/win for the kid. Dean wants to snark at his brother, though. He’s missed it like color and light and movement and he wants all those things back right the fuck now.

Dean tries to move out of the void, but the darkness sucks at him like mud. He doesn’t know which way is out, but he’s going to try them all until he finds it. He hasn’t seen his brother in two years, and he’s not missing the opportunity now, no matter how hard it is to accomplish. He starts with ever expanding circles, moving through the empty spaces, looking for the exit he’s determined to find. Hell, he’ll rip a hole through his skull if that’s what it takes, because he’ll be damned if he’s going to be trapped in here forever.

Sam mostly stays and talks, but sometimes he goes and Dean silently panics until the words start appearing again. Sometimes it’s Dean that goes away for a while, but his brother doesn’t know the difference and he’s usually still talking when Dean comes back. Occasionally Eddy’s there too, and he talks to Sam about what happened when Dean came to the hospital. Dean listens carefully to those words, and tries to remember, but his memories of that time are gone like a black hole sucked them in. Eddy still calls him _Barbara Rose_ , and Sam laughs.

 _Yeah, gotta do something about that beard. And his hair. He’s gonna be so pissed when he wakes up_.

Sam sounds sure. Sam is sure that he’s going to wake up, and Dean’s not going to let him down. He stops circling, he stops pushing, he stops thinking about escape at all. His nose twitches, his eyelids flutter and there’s light. There’s light. His hand feels like it’s being crushed and he never thought he’d be happy to feel pain but right now, just feeling anything is like heaven.

 _Dean, hey. Are you there? Come on man, just blink for me or something_.

It’s probably Sam squashing his fingers, the kid always did hang on too tight. Dean blinks his eyes slowly. It’s really all he can manage right now, but it’s enough for Sam.

 _Oh, thank God. No, no, keep your eyes open Dean, that’s it. Don’t go back to sleep on me now. It’s New Year’s and you don’t want to sleep through that, I’ll never let you hear the end of it_.

Dean keeps his eyes open because Sam asks, but everything’s a blur. Sam’s leaning over him, he’s sure it’s Sam. Even blurry, _especially_ blurry, his brother’s hair is unmistakable. Dean tries to raise the hand that’s not trapped in Sammy’s death grip, but it barely twitches so he leaves it where it is. He figures he’s let Sam do all the talking long enough, so he decides to give that a try next. It works about as well as lifting his hand did. His mouth opens and closes but no sound is coming out, and he begins to breathe faster, trying to get enough air to force out a word.

The pings and beeps are getting faster and louder and then Dean’s surrounded by more ghostly shapes. The crippling pressure is suddenly gone from his hand as his brother is moved back out of the way of the medical personnel that all of a sudden need to see him. Hands are peeling back his eyelids and bright lights are shining in his sensitive eyes and he tries to jerk his head away, but it’s lodged like a boulder on his pillow.

“Okay, Bar…Mr. Wesley, just take it easy. Things are a little confusing right now, but they’ll get clearer as time goes on. We’re going to take you for a few tests, and then we’ll get you back to your brother, all right?”

It’s not all right, but there’s nothing Dean can do as they wheel him out of the room. Sam must see it on his face because he’s right there beside him, all the way to the elevator.

 

“It’s okay, Dean. I’ll be right here when you get back and I’ll explain as much as I can. When you feel a little better you can fill me in on a few things too. Just don’t give the doctors a hard time and I’ll see you soon.”

There’s a ding as the doors slide shut and Sam’s lost from sight. He’ll still be here though, when Dean’s done and that eases the tightness in his chest a little. Dean’s got no choice about cooperating and he suffers through being poked and prodded and scanned with as much griping as he can manage. Which is none basically, but he’s some first class griping going on in his head so, in his mind, that counts for something.

Sam’s not in the room when Dean gets back, but he comes in a few minutes later with a sandwich and a cup of coffee and Dean’s heartbeat slows to something approaching normal. The doctor’s talking to both of them, telling them that the swelling in Dean’s head has been reduced to almost normal and the lesion in his brain is almost completely healed. He says it’s too soon to tell for sure, but there’s a good chance Dean will make a full recovery.

After the doctor leaves, Sam lets out a long breath and falls into the chair beside Dean’s bed. Dean’s hand is crushed again, and Sam’s speaking. This time the words are normal, not slow, not fast, maybe there’s a light echoing quality to them, but Dean catches them all and he feels like he’s finally getting somewhere.

“God, Dean. You’re going to be all right. Jesus, why do you have to keep doing this?”

Dean just looks at him and actually manages to breathe out some words. “How long?”

“You were in the coma about two weeks.”

It’s hard, but Dean has to know. “Wha’ happen’?”

“Before you got to the hospital? I don’t know. You were found, passed out on the street, about a week before Christmas. They thought you were drunk when they brought you in.”

“Wasn’.” Dean’s not sure of much, but he’s sure of that.

Sam grimaces. “No, you weren’t. Someone bashed you in the back of the head, but they didn’t find it…hell, they didn’t look for it, until it was too late. You started seizing and went into the coma.”

Dean shouldn’t be tired, he’s been asleep for two freakin’ weeks, but he feels his eyes start to slip closed as Sam is talking. He fights it, but it’s a losing proposition and he drifts off to the sound of Sam’s voice.

When he opens his eyes again, Eddy’s there too, talking to Sam, and the whole Barbara Rose thing comes up again.

“I don’t know,” Eddy is saying. “He was a pretty bad ass pirate, and your brother’s beard’s kind of red. Just sort of made the connection, you know?”

 _Pirate? Beard? What the fuck_?

“Oh, Dean’s bad ass all right.” Sam sounds amused. “I just see him more as the dread pirate Wesley is all. You know, bad ass, but smooth and tough and gets the girl at the end. That’s the kind of pirate Dean would be.”

“That’s good, your last name being Wesley and all,” Eddy laughs.

“Um..yeah, I thought it made it even funnier. Dean didn’t like it much.”

Dean had though. When Sam had made him watch that stupid princess bride movie, he’d really liked the farm boy turned pirate who fought through everything to get to the person he loved. He could sort of identify. So when Sam had called him the dread pirate Dean he’d pretended to be pissed, but he knew that if he was ever in the situation of having to rescue his loved ones? He’d be there and the bad guys wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Hey,” Dean croaks, pulling the attention of both men to him. “Wha’s wit’ th’ pirate thing? And who th’ fu’ is Barbara Rose?”

Sam snorts and Eddy bursts out laughing.

“ _Barbarossa_ , Dean. Means Red Beard. He was a pirate off the coast of Africa back in the prime days of pirating. That beard you’re rocking reminded Eddy here of him and since no one knew your name, it sort of just stuck.”

Dean’s hand twitches, but it’s still not up to reaching up to feel his face. “Don’ got a beard.”

Sam pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolds it in front of Dean’s face. “This is the picture of you that Eddy here, took after you came in. He somehow got a person in the Dean of Student’s office to print up flyers with your ugly mug on them and post them around campus. It’s just blind luck that I saw one before I left. And just for the record, Dean? It would have been a lot easier for someone to find me if you would stop referring to me as “Princess,” got it? And the beard’s had another two weeks to get even more pirate like, man, you should see it now.”

Dean just stares at the picture in confusion. The man in that picture isn’t him, it can’t be. It looks like a bum off the street, like the fuckin’ Unibomber, not Dean Winchester. His eyes meet Sam’s and the humor fades from his brother’s face as he folds the paper up and puts it back in his pocket.

“Tha’…tha’s no’ me.”

Sam’s hand is back on Dean’s but it’s gentle this time as he slowly lifts his brother’s hand and runs it along his face. Dean feels the rough hair as Sam strokes Dean’s own hand around his chin. Dean’s lip quivers and he feels a tear slide down his cheek.

“Wha’?”

“The doctors say you were in pretty bad shape when you came in and it was from more than a whack on the head.” Sam runs his hands over the wraps on Dean’s wrists, lifts Dean’s other hand so he can see the bandages on his fingers. “Someone had you, Dean. Probably for a few weeks, maybe a month. Malnutrition, dehydration, cracked ribs, pulled out fingernails, and last but not least, the blunt trauma to the head that they probably thought would kill you.”

“Didn’t.”

“No.” Sam’s lip twitches, but not in a smile. “No, not this time. Do you remember anything at all, Dean? Do you know who might have done this?”

“No.” Dean thinks back, but it’s all dark where those memories should be. “Can’ remember, Sammy.”

“You might not ever remember.” Eddy chimes in with words neither brother wants to hear. “When you get a head injury like that it’s common for memories of that time to be lost. Occasionally coma patients will get their memories back, but it doesn’t happen often.”

A thought comes to Dean in a panic, and his fingers twitch under Sam’s. “Dad. Is Dad..?”

“Dad’s fine Dean. And so’s your car before you start freaking out about her too. Dad was on a job in New Mexico when you went missing, he’s been going crazy looking for you for weeks.”

“Called you?” Dean’s hopeful, but Sam squashes it right away.

“First I knew of it was when I saw the flyers. Called Pastor Jim after I got here, and he told me Dad had called him looking for you. Dad knows you’re here now, knows I’m with you and he knows you’re awake. He’s got some things to finish up,” Sam’s voice gets bitter here, “and then he’ll be by to spring you.”

“My baby?”

Sam laughs humorlessly. “Found the Impala in a parking lot across town. It’d been there for a while, no one seems to know how long. There’s five blocks of apartment buildings, a bunch of hotels and a few office buildings nearby. I didn’t have any luck getting any leads in any of them. Nothing’s missing though, at least as far as I could tell, so that‘s one good thing anyway.”

Dean just stares at Sam. “Been workin’?”

“It’s like riding a bike Dean. I wish I could forget how, but apparently it’s sticking with me.” Sam turns to Eddy. “Hey man, think he could get a shave? The pirate look’s not sitting well with him. Maybe a haircut too?”

“Sure, my pleasure,” Eddy grins. “The nurses have been dying to see what you look like under all that hair.”

“Gonna have t’ beat ‘em off with a stick,” Dean murmurs and the other two laugh.

“You can’t even lift a stick right now, Dean. The nurses are going to have their way with you.”

“I c’n live wi’ that.”

Eddy fetches a basin and a razor and gets to work. It takes a while, but the tufts of hair gradually disappear and when Eddy’s finished Sam once again runs Dean’s hand along his newly smooth chin.

Dean smiles. “Tha’s better, Eddy. Thanks.”

“No problem, Dean. Want me to do the hair too?”

“No!” Dean saw what his hair looked like in the picture and he doesn’t really trust Eddy to get that mess back to how it should be. “I mean, thanks bu’ no. My dad’ll do it when he gets here.”

“Dad’ll probably just shave it all off,” Sam mutters and Dean shoots him a look.

“No, he won’. He’ll make it right. When’s he comin’ anyway?”

“Couple of hours.” Sam looks away and Dean tenses.

“You’re leaving.” It’s not a question and Sam nods.

“I’ve got a lot to do before the new term starts, Dean. I’ve missed a lot of work, a lot of studying and you’re going to be okay. It’s time for me to head back, and I really don’t want to run into Dad on my way out the door.”

“He’ll want to see you.” Dean’s serious, but Sam snorts in disbelief.

“No he won’t. Look, you’ve got to do your thing and I’ve got to do mine. That’s just the way it is.” Sam runs a hand down Dean’s face, briefly clasps his hand. “Just take care of yourself better next time.”

“Sammy.” Dean’s voice is pleading, and his brother’s step hesitates for a moment, then he’s out the door.

“I’ve still got it, you know.”

Dean opens his eyes to find Eddy standing beside the bed, face worried and uncomfortable, but trying to help.

“Got what,” Dean asks dully.

“Got the paper I found on you with the phone number on it. It’s with your things. He’s right, though. If you put Sam on it instead of Princess, it would have made finding him a hell of a lot easier.”

“Why’d you go to all that trouble, anyway? You don’t know me.”

“It was Christmas time, man. You were alone and hurt and calling for your brother. I thought you were just a drunk off the street and I was wrong. I owed you.”

“Well, we’re even now,” Dean murmurs. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, Barbara Rose.” Eddy grins as he leaves the room and Dean manages to get his middle finger to work just long enough to flip the other man off.

“Yo, ho, ho,” he mutters to himself as he settles back to wait for his father.


End file.
